


La Vita Amara

by broflcvskii



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, M/M, angry everyone everyone is so angry, angry feminists, angry film students, can i tag the 'large hadron collider' as a character, i want to, lots of existential crisis' too, they're basically their own character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broflcvskii/pseuds/broflcvskii
Summary: Thanks to a state-wide Colorado filmmaking competition, and a number of long-running feuds, two newly formed South Park production companies will go head-to-head in order to create the best film, captained by Broflovski and Cartman respectively – but neither of them could have anticipated the accidental intervention of the Large Hadron Collider, not to mention, the realization of the multiverse theory. Kyle's film was supposed to be a superhero satire, and suddenly it's not very funny anymore.I wrote most of the first chapter of this kind of drunk, and I feel like that really sums up how the rest of this fic is gonna turn out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> you know how they (earnest hemingway? i think? or oscar wilde??? i always mix those two up) 'write drunk, edit sober' ? that's what i did. only i didn't edit sober. i just wrote drunk. this is a disaster. enjoy. 
> 
> i didn't edit it i don't know what i'm doing bye

“Red? Really? Just because it was one of Kieslowski’s three colours doesn’t mean it needs to be fucking everywhere in my film.” The asserted pronoun was punctuated by static articulation, broad gesture of two fingers dismissively implying the frustration that rolled eyes and hastened sigh announced with pomp and circumstance. Stan’s lips twitched into a plateau, hard brow falling southwards as he attempted to trouble the meaning behind such particularly expressed sentiment. He had never known Kyle to be so harsh (demanding, perhaps, assertive, definitely, but never harsh), but then again, he had hardly known Kyle for the past four years, and it was said that college heralded the formation of true identity. 

It was no surprise, therefore, that Stan knew little of Kyle’s newfound sense of purpose, nor of his own. Four years at the University of Colorado Boulder had added mettle to Kyle’s character and conviction to the straightness of his spine and the set of his jaw, but no such prestigious education had illuminated the pathways of Stan’s character. A year of community college, then god knows how many semesters of online courses concurrent to full time jobs had done as much to form Stan’s sense of self as they had to promote a positive outlook on the human spirit and the possibilities offered to him in a post-Capitalist society: he was certain they had done something, either positive or negative, but he had hardly had enough time or energy to sit down and consider exactly what. 

All he could do, in this moment of spared time, offered with generosity to Kyle, was consider what the hell had happened to his best friend. Kyle had always been irritable, certainly, and his sense of self-importance and tendencies to universalize his experiences had become a point of frustration for Stan as the years progressed, but Stan had never expected him to become quite this explosive. Stan supposed it had been somewhat foreshadowed by what few previous interactions had coloured the last years of their friendships, but Stan had always been so intent on believing their meetings to have been subjective (Kyle was venting, Kyle was stressed, this wasn’t who Kyle really was) that he had managed to blind himself to the realities of the situation: Kyle had changed, and Stan wasn’t certain it was for the better. 

“Is it really that much to ask for differentiation between the character designs?” Indignation displayed itself with little remorse across Wendy’s sharp features, haughty insult readying on her tongue, but, unlike Kyle, Wendy understood strategy, and therefore when it was better to still her tongue than let it lash with rage. Trembling fingers rose to clutch, claw-like, into her hair, and Stan could not help but fault them both: neither of them were particularly good at self-regulation, nor hearing criticism. 

Stan’s arms folded over the back of the plastic folding chair, closed lips and wide eyes omnipresent as he surveyed the chaos in front of him. He would await instruction, but until then, he didn’t see fit to envelope himself in the chaos that permeated the world around him. Fifteen thousand dollars – it wasn’t that much money, not once it was split the five ways between them. Certainly, it was not insubstantial, but, having lived in the real world (longer than Kyle had, that was certain), Stan was all too aware that three grand meant very little. In a few months, that money would be as good as gone, if only because of routine costs, routine costs that Kyle had hardly had to think of, nor had Wendy, nor, for that matter, had Clyde or Token. 

Stan was the only one of them who had truly ventured into adulthood after tossing black caps skyward, and he truthfully longed for the blissful ignorance of college life. He wished he hadn’t failed that Stats course, and he wished he had been able to keep his scholarship, and he wished he had tried harder at football, and he wished he had worked harder in high school to save up money, and he wished, god, he wished that he wasn’t stuck doing online courses while attempting desperately to accumulate enough money to move out on his own. He was twenty-two for Christ’s sake, and all he wanted was a little goddamn autonomy. 

Three grand wasn’t much, but it was first and last month’s rent of a place in Denver, and maybe a little more in case it took him a couple of weeks to secure a job. And so he had agreed to help (or, at least, he had answered the few rushed texts sent his way by an obviously distracted Kyle), telling himself it was all about that prize, and the freedom that had come with it. But a part of him was just curious. All these people he hadn’t seen since high school, many of whom he had thought had escaped the suffocating grasp of monotonous small-town life, all adults now, all with their own goals and ideologies and senses of purpose, all of them striving towards something, all of them righteous in their own ways, all of them grander structures than Stan himself. Next to them he felt insufficient, weak in conviction, but less naïve, and in that he found comfort. 

Stan had expected something different for Kyle. Kyle had been so convinced that a double major in Political Science and English would lead him towards law school, (Kyle had stated that English was the most common arts major to precede law school due to its focus on analytical and critical thinking, and political science would help him find a passion and focus), that Stan had been ready to celebrate Kyle the human rights lawyer up until the moment he graduated, even when Stan had known that, three years ago, Kyle had changed his major. A year after being accepted, Kyle confessed to Stan that he was changing to a Bachelor of Arts in film, due to a life-changing professor, and the realization that Kyle didn’t want to be defined by both his parents’ ambition and a stereotype, and therefore he as pursuing a lesser-celebrated passion. 

Stan remembered the way his fingers had hesitated on the edge of his laptop after Kyle had hung up the Skype call, Stan’s gaze unfocused as it bobbed down to fixate upon the periwinkle glow of his laptop screen, attempting to understand the sentiment that had so impacted the course of Kyle’s pragmatism. Kyle, while deeply passionate in his nature, had rarely been thoughtless, and yet to Stan, the choice seemed so short-sighted. He had let darkness overtake his room as he clicked his laptop shut then, wondering when he would tell Kyle that he was planning of dropping out. 

“Back me up on this, Stan.” Unsettled reverie was broken by speech, Stan starting upwards to stand straight as he heard his name. “This is supposed to satirize the saturation of super-hero narratives in main-stream commercial cinema. It’s important that we use those conventions, y’know, like, bein’ able to fuckin’ tell who we’re looking at. Different coloured costumes, since we’re not the Fantastic Four –– at least, I’m pretty sure we aren’t, I dunno, Stan, did you see that title on the script?” 

Stan remembered when Kyle’s sarcasm had come in short bursts, his necessity of correctness harmless, though occasionally accompanied by indignant huffs and arguments, but never had Stan seen Kyle so cold and dismissive. Heavy brow furrowed as Stan tried to come up with a response, stuck between the two sets of eyes, Wendy’s looking nearly pleading (not a look he was used to seeing her lay bare) and Kyle’s, which held a vague sense of threat to them. 

“I dunno, I only got the script last night, dude, you can’t expect me to read it and get all the shit you’re trynna do with it by then.” Stan asserted nearly apologetically, arms folding over his body in humiliated defence. Neither party looked particularly appeased by his answer, Wendy looking affronted that he hadn’t come to her aid, and Kyle disappointed that he hadn’t given some weak answer that would have only served to amplify Kyle’s authority. Stan immediately regretted not siding with Wendy, though he worried he was projecting too many of his own fears as to the motivations for Kyle’s behaviour onto his former best friend. 

It was becoming quickly all too obvious that Kyle was no longer the person that Stan had remembered; bitterness had soured Kyle’s tongue, making cruel a heart once ruled by an (occasionally misguided) sense of morality. It was disappointing, watching anger fester in Kyle, growing poisoned and rancid. Out of all of the despicable people Stan had known in the hell-hole that was South Park, Kyle had been the purist, the most virtuous and redeemable. Ironically, it seemed to be the outside world that had robbed him of his goodness, and not this godforsaken town in which Stan had gotten himself stuck. 

He hadn’t heard the last words that Kyle had shared with Wendy, as to Kyle’s thoughts on her designs, but from the second dismissive gesture, and the way in which he stalked away as if personally affronted, he guessed that Wendy’s look of insult was entirely justified. “Hey ––– “ he had never been particularly skilled when it came to giving comfort, but he knew Wendy well enough to understand that saying something was better than saying nothing. “ –––––– he’s a dick.” He had never expected to say those words about Kyle Broflovski without qualification, but here he was. A lot had happened in the last four years. “Don’t listen to him.” 

Wendy’s grimace was nearly more biting than Kyle’s words to her had been: at least Kyle didn’t pity her in the way that Wendy obviously pitied Stan. When she spoke to him now it often sounded like a teacher explaining a simple concept to a child. As if his failures in community college hinted that perhaps Stan himself wasn’t equipped to handle the world outside of his insular existence. “He did give me specifications, it’s my fault I didn’t get them right. I guess he just could have handled it better.” Wendy spoke with precise eloquence, to the point where Stan couldn’t help but feel insufficient. Even when they were children, she had been articulate, but never quite to this degree. Never with such condescension. “I haven’t done much design in the past, I just kind of thought ––– I guess you haven’t done much of this either.” 

“No,” Stan laughed with little humour, only the vague hope that it would lessen the stiffness that had overtaken their interaction. The chair whose back he had leaned against only moments before served as a barricade between himself and Wendy, a piece of cheap patent plastic that interrupted intimacy. Not that he had had any with Wendy for a very long time, but it would have been nice, after Kyle’s behaviour, to at least craft the illusion of some. “I’m just here to work equipment and lift heavy stuff, you know. Kyle asked if I could be an extra set of hands on set, and, like ––– what else was I gonna do?” 

The condescension that returned to Wendy’s smile forced Stan’s gaze to avert, lest he let out an audible groan. He supposed he could have phrased that to sound slightly less pathetic, but he didn’t need the sadness and apology that lingered in Wendy’s hesitant gaze. “Well, it’ll be fun to work together. Even if Kyle is taking this a little too seriously ––– I still can’t believe he got his degree in film.” 

The gossip brought a welcome relief to the unspoken focus on Stan’s place, and it was easier for Stan to laugh now, his speech picking up pace as his previously inner thoughts spilled forwards in a jumbled confusion. “Yeah, I know what you mean, it was, like, totally out of the blue. I guess if he’s enjoying it, that’s all that really matters, but, like, he had his whole life planned out, then it was like he just changed his mind overnight. I don’t get it.” He spoke of three years ago as if the events had just occurred – but, despite the time gap, the confusion still felt fresh. 

“I guess I expected you would have known what was going on in his head – “ Wendy seemed more bemused than disappointed at Stan’s lack of concise answer, and Stan realized she was right. The mystification of Kyle’s choice lived on for everyone, including Stan, who had still thought himself Kyle’s best friend at the time. And yet, Kyle had given him no explanation beyond that he had “wanted to”, and therefore he knew just as much as Kyle’s acquaintances did. Perhaps Stan had been wrong: perhaps their friendship had ended far before that moment. Perhaps Kyle’s silence had gone unheard for months ahead of its overwhelming ring. 

“I don’t think I’ve understood much that goes on in Kyle’s head since, like, eight grade.” There was a bitterness that stained Stan’s words, one that he didn’t intend to be audible, but he didn’t think to censor himself around Wendy. He felt her gaze on him, questioning, inquisitive, but he tried not to flush under it, his insecurity in his friendship with Kyle hardly lacking sensitivity. “Well, I guess he’s kinda an asshole now. Hey, at least it’ll make a good story, right? In three years, I’m sure I’ll look back at this and laugh.” 

Wendy didn’t seem quite so positive, although she attempted to reaffirm Stan’s words with a smile. The pages that still were held, poised between her fingers, rustled with uncertainty as Wendy fidgeted, cutting breaths of paper announcing her intention to leave. Stan allowed her an excuse as he turned his gaze westward to where Kyle had disappeared, one hand moving to the back of his neck in a vaguely awkward gesture. “Good luck with the –– designs and stuff. I should see if he, uh, y’know, needs me or whatever.” 

They said their good-byes hastily as Stan loped off towards Kyle, nearly hesitant in each step. Still they remained early in the game, the script subject to change on a daily basis, mountains of notebooks worth of ideas and designs and notes marking the work table in Kyle’s basement that Stan could recall a computer monitor once sitting upon, one that he had recalled playing Starcraft on during a rare snow day. 

“Hey –– you, uh, need any help?” Stan kept his distance as he inquired, half expecting Kyle’s newfound rage to be turned towards him, and so he was surprised when Kyle offered him a rueful smile, arm folding over his body as if Kyle attempted to close himself off when he offered his half-hearted suggestion. 

“You wanna find me at least ten more people who wanna come on board for this project, but not get any prize money?” Kyle still held softness in his features, Stan noted, the wide hazel eyes that had once been so curious and thoughtful still remained broad in their gaze, and though the freckles that marked constellations across the bridge of his nose had faded from an indoor existence, they still softly marked out a pattern of childhood adventures, each one a reminder of a day that had been spent in the sun, even if that sun reflected with blinding fury off of peaks of luminescent snow. But there was wear now too; chubby cheeks marked by childhood had become nearly gaunt, and lines had begun to form in the creases of Kyle’s brow and around his lips. Some marked smiles, but most marked consternation. 

“Not really,” Stan admitted, placing a hand on the desk, leaning his weight into it. He should have told Kyle he couldn’t come until later – all he had done had been stand around, which was slightly exhausting when running on only a few hours of sleep. “Dude, why did you sign up for the contest if it was gonna be a big deal? I think it was supposed to be, y’know, for fun or whatever.” Though Stan had only skimmed the details in the link that Kyle had sent his way, he recalled seeing nothing regarding creating a feature-length, full-budget-appearing film. Hell, the theme was supposed to be “Resilience” and Stan wasn’t certain how exactly Kyle’s vision of what he had described as an ‘absurdist critique’ would fit into that category. 

“It’s fifteen grand, Stan, I’m gonna take that pretty seriously.” Kyle drawled almost contemptuously, as if his answer displayed he knew some grand universal truth of the universe that Stan himself couldn’t yet grasp. “Besides – I take pride in my work, I don’t wanna half-ass this.” 

Stan remembered that last party when he had said goodbye to Kyle before he went off to college; he remembered how excitedly Kyle had chattered away as they packed boxes that afternoon, and folded freshly-laundered clothing into neat rolls, Stan’s smile beaming and his heart abuzz with newfound hope, both for himself, and for Kyle. His room had smelled of dust and laundry detergent, and the afternoon sun had added an ethereal glow to Kyle’s smile as he blabbered on about all of the courses he was going to take, and all the successes he would achieve after graduation. 

At the party that night, he had never seen Kyle let loose so much, and it only elevated Stan’s already inflated sense of elation. Kyle wasn’t being held back anymore, not by his family, not by responsibilities, not by anything: all he had now was promise, and potential, and Stan knew he would fill it. And they had found a corner in Bebe Stevens’ house after six beers to quietly whisper all the secrets they had never told one another, what few there were, alcohol stumbling their consonants, laughter interrupting their confessions. Stan had told Kyle about the time in the tenth grade where he played seven minutes in heaven, and everyone had thought he had made out with Wendy, but really they only kissed, and she complained that he used too much tongue. Kyle had told him in turn about the time he had accidentally walked in on Shelly in the bathroom at Stan’s house, and wasn’t sure if he should tell Stan that he’d seen Stan’s sister’s ass. 

Stan couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed that hard, nor the last time he’d sung until his throat felt like tearing apart, as they had, arm in arm, as they gallivanted away from the party, thirteen drinks in, filled with the joy of possibility. 

Kyle had showed up over the summers a few times, but they never found corners to tell each other secrets anymore. The openness of possibility became suffocated by inevitability, as Stan dropped out and Kyle switched his major, and slowly they both began to realize the truth of oncoming adulthood, and the sacrifices of their own dreams they would soon have to make. 

Standing across from each other now, Stan wondered if there was any hope left in either of their minds. Kyle’s quick tongue, Stan’s apathy, both spoke of years of disappointment and mistakes, though Stan didn’t know the course of Kyle’s. He had thought he would. But texting every day turned into every second day, then skype calls once a month, and by Kyle’s third year, it was barely more than birthday and new years texts, and a few social events when Kyle would end up back in South Park, seemingly as if by accident, becoming more and more out of place as small town life wore off his skin. Stan was glad that Kyle had never whispered to him why he had changed in the corner of someone’s house, surrounded by jolting bodies and a haze of weed smoke. It wasn’t a secret that Stan wanted to be told in a state that would only allow him to recall half of the details.   
“Listen, dude – “ Stan let out a small sigh, gaze averting momentarily as he attempted to collect what little thoughts he could comprehend; he straightened his back, sinking his hands into his front pockets, as if to close himself off from Kyle’s frustrations, let himself be present, but hopefully a smaller target. “It’s gonna be awesome. No matter what. It’s gonna be a lot of fun, so just, like – don’t beat yourself up over it. Or anyone else. Cause most of them are here because they wanna help you. Not because they care about the film, okay?” 

Kyle smiled ruefully in return (Stan sensed a note of embarrassment in the flicker of his glance eastwards) taking a moment before he responded. “Yeah, I guess I’m just not out of my schoolwork headspace, you know? It’s hard to de-stress.” 

“Yeah,” Stan said, without knowing as Kyle had indicated he would. He wondered if Kyle remembered he had dropped out. He wondered if Kyle even remembered where he worked. “Listen, you gave people shit to do, right? Why don’t we grab some coffee and we can talk through the script or something.” Stan could see their three other cohorts eyeing Kyle with exasperated frustration from the corners of the basement, trying in vain to concentrate on the tasks given to them, though with Kyle’s hovering aggression, Stan couldn’t blame them for looking over their shoulder rather than at their tasks. 

“I dunno, I should probably stay to – “ 

“Kyle, dude. Forty-five minutes. Max. C’mon.” He started towards the stairs, the finality in his words denying Kyle a choice. Begrudgingly, Kyle followed after him, a few glances spared back to where the others were huddled around, Token and Clyde trying with sincerity to help Wendy figure out Kyle’s vague instructions and complaints. Kyle’s gaze looked nearly apologetic, Stan noted, but his pride got the better of him, and left his tongue still as the basement steps creaked below their feet, introducing their absence. 

 

“So –– what’s the idea, then?” It had been snowing on their walk over, and Kyle’s gloved fingers spread as they skimmed a layer of white powder off the familiar lime-green hat that had grown so worn with age. Stan’s fingers curled around his mug, staying in place for as long as he could stand the heat, before they darted back to simply hover, and absorb what warmth he could from the ceramic’s ghost. 

“I thought I sent you the script.” Kyle said, setting his hat on the back of his chair. He kept his hair shorter now, close cropped at the sides, and Stan couldn’t help but hate it. It was unfamiliar, it emphasized the hollows of Kyle’s cheeks, the thinness of his face that had only accompanied their years apart. It made Kyle a stranger to him. 

“You did, but I didn’t read all of it.” Or any of it. It had taken a fight to get today off of work for Stan, between the job at the car rental place, and the other one bussing tables, not to mention occasionally doing respite work when he could. 

“You remember back when we were kids, when we used to play superheroes?” Kyle’s tone warmed with nostalgia, and Stan’s fingers stayed against his mug for too long, shooting back when they itched with burn. “It’s kinda like that – this group of adults who started playing superheroes when they were kids, and got stuck with it. And now they’re in their twenties and some of them are ready to grow up and give it up, but some aren’t. I mean, that makes it sound super serious – there’s gonna be a lot of crazy shit. Just give it a read when you can – it’s open to changes and stuff.” 

Stan had never known Kyle to be this vague. He felt like the last time he had had a full conversation with Kyle, he never would have hesitated to explain his thoughts and ideas into near monotony, over-describing every intricate detail. And now he gave Stan nothing. Kyle had become utterly detached. “Cool, I’ll try and do that. So, uh, how long are you back in town for?” 

Kyle stiffened at the question. Stan wondered if he should have simply pushed the topic of the contest. “I don’t know.” Kyle responded shortly, pausing before giving a more carefully thought out response. “I’m staying at home for a bit so I can look for a job. I don’t want to stay in South Park more than a few months, but – I don’t really have anything lined up.” 

“Cool.” Stan responded, not certain what else to say. “Well, uh, I know some places nearby are hiring, like, for the meantime or whatever.” 

“I don’t want to get stuck here.” Kyle’s words cut into Stan’s belly and filled his abdomen with cold humiliation. Kyle didn’t want to become Stan, another small town kid who would grow up and live and die in the same place, never amounting to anything greater than mediocrity. “I just – I like city life better.” He seemed to have sensed Stan’s embarrassment, but it was too little too late. Stan had understood Kyle’s disdain all too well. 

“Yeah, well, hopefully you won’t be here too long then.” Stan didn’t mean to sound as spiteful as he had, but Kyle’s silence told him that his words had hit their mark, and a small note of satisfaction warmed the humiliation that still punctuated his breath. 

“So, uh, are you gonna just try and find jobs in film and stuff?” Stan asked after another pause, not wanting to further the chasm that had opened up between himself and Kyle. 

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, yeah, that’s what I want to do, but I gotta be realistic too. I might end up, y’know, doing something in marketing or whatever. Or PR. Or just – a general admin position. I really wanna do film, but – the odds aren’t great.” Kyle sounded as if he had given a similar version of this answer before, though he might have phrased it to sound more pragmatic than he had just then. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s hard.” Stan said dumbly, not certain what else he could say. He wanted to ask why Kyle wasn’t going to law school. He wanted to ask why Kyle suddenly wanted to do film. He wanted to ask why Kyle had stopped talking to him. He wanted to ask who had been there when Kyle had gotten that stain on the hem of his sweater, and he wanted to ask why Kyle hadn’t texted Stan when he’d turned twenty-two. Instead, he asked, “So, is this your first film that you’re working on?” 

“How could you tell?” Kyle gave Stan a rueful half-smile, nearly sheepish, and Stan couldn’t help but return it. Despite the previous moment’s seeming animosity, Stan couldn’t hold a grudge against Kyle. He knew him too well to think quips back and forth meant anything other than momentary frustration. “I’ve helped out on a few sets for a few classmates and stuff, but never fronted my own project. I mean, part of that’s cause I did the B.A. program, not the B.F.A. – mine is theoretical mostly, since, y’know, B.A.’s are handier to have. B.F.A.’s are like, joke degrees.” 

“Why’s that?” This was the first Stan had ever heard of any of this. 

“I guess cause fine arts aren’t taken as seriously. Also, I guess some of the skills aren’t as applicable?” Kyle picked up his mug (Stan noticed that Kyle had started taking his coffee black, when he never used to) and blew on its contents for a distracted moment – apparently, he didn’t want to say more than he already had. 

It felt to Stan more and more that Kyle was reacting to every question as an accusation, constantly feeling the need to defend himself from what Stan meant to be no more than curiosity. “Well, I guess you’ll get further with a degree than without one.” 

“Yeah – speaking of, how are the online courses and stuff going? Wendy told me you were trying to pick those back up.” 

“Fine, I guess, but it’s hard to keep myself motivated. But I don’t have time to go to class, so, this is kinda the best I can do. It’ll probably take me a few more years, but it’s better than nothing.” 

“What are you taking?” 

Stan hesitated. What was he taking? “Uh – science.” 

Kyle didn’t inquire further, and Stan had wished he had flat out made fun of Stan in that moment, as his silence read as even more patronizing. He wished Kyle still felt like he could joke around with Stan, that he could tease him and make fun of him, and he wished that, if Kyle did so, Stan would be able to tell the humour behind the jest. But Stan didn’t know him well enough anymore – and so they both sat in silence for a long minute. 

“Did you hear that Cartman’s entering the contest too?” Kyle eventually chimed in, his voice higher in pitch, as if he could lift their spirits with his tone. 

“No shit – you’re kidding me. Cartman? Didn’t he study business?” 

“Yeah, apparently he’s entered, with Butters and Kenny and a few others – probably only for the prize money. And he’s probably not going to give an even split to the others – “ 

“What a dickwad.” Kyle snorted, and it was the closest to a real laugh that Stan had heard out of him in years. 

“I don’t know what their film’s going to be about, but Kenny said Cartman’s trying to make a spy thriller or something. He’s probably gonna spend more on the film than he’d get from the prize money.” 

“Jesus Christ, dude.” Stan laughed at the thought of Cartman (whom he had seen only briefly since high school, and was hardly sorry that that had been the case) attempting to pitch the idea of himself starring as an international spy, specifically to Kenny, who would have had no hesitation voicing their sardonic amusement. “Have you talked to Kenny lately?” 

“Yeah, we went for drinks when I came into town. They seem to be doing a lot better these days. At least, better than the last time I was here.” 

“Yeah, they’re working less, which is good.” Stan picked up his mug (by the handle this time), gazing at the progression of ripples across the surface of his coffee from each minute movement he made. “They’ve managed to save up some cash, so hopefully they can move out by the end of the year. I know Kenny wants to take Karen with him – she’s finished high school now or whatever, but I don’t think Kenny wants her to be stuck working as hard as them.” 

“Yeah – “ Kyle set his mug down, a slightly embarrassed smile setting onto his lips. He seemed to be visibly relaxing around Stan, though an air of civility remained as a barricade between them. “It’s so weird coming back here – I mean, nothing’s changed, but everything’s changed, you know?” 

“Yeah.” Stan admitted, mirroring Kyle as he set his own mug down, despite having not taken a drink. “It’s amazing how quick things can change.” 

If Stan had studied along side of Kyle, he would late reflect back on those words with begrudging irony, as it was at that very moment, about five thousand miles away, Eric Cartman had just punched the Large Hadron Collider.

**Author's Note:**

> i write dense as balls prose. im sorry about that. idk hmu let me know your thoughts??? broflcvskii.tumblr.com is me


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